


A Gift from the Unknown

by Blake



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: A lot of kissing, Canon Era, Cooking, Fix-It, House Cleaning, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Post-Season/Series 05, Resurrection, Reunion Sex, Role Reversal, Sharing Clothes, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28660050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Albion's greatest need is for Merlin not to die of a broken heart.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 133





	A Gift from the Unknown

**Author's Note:**

> I think I've written this same story in multiple other fandoms, but hey, I like what I like and also I do what my wife asks me to do :) Thank you Jen for editing!!

Arthur follows the instructions in his head—not quite a voice, not quite images either. But his head is muddled anyways, and the only clarity is the path to the place where he’s meant to go. His hair dries as he walks, but his clothes are still damp when the little hut comes into view. He’s not sure where the clothes came from, nor where _he_ came from, really, and the presence in his mind that pushed him here couldn’t _actually_ be the Triple Goddess, yet he knows it somehow is, and he wonders how much time has passed, and if Merlin will have gone grey—

Merlin drops an entire pitcher of water onto the ground when he sees Arthur. His hair is black as ever, grown wild and long enough to hide his ears. His eyes look as old as the sea and as young as a babbling brook. Arthur smiles with his entire body.

It takes a lot of convincing to get a kiss. Apparently, walking out of a lake and arriving at Merlin’s cottage with a grin on one’s face counts as suspicious circumstances for one’s return. He watches Merlin’s eyes flash gold and feels tingling warmth wash over him as Merlin sets spell after spell on on him, like guard dogs. The furrow of determination on Merlin’s brow grows deeper and deeper with each failed attempt to reveal whatever wraith or creature he thinks Arthur must be. Arthur wonders if it will grow so deep that it breaks, but then Merlin is crying, hands covering his bearded mouth, and he’s _finally_ holding still. Arthur’s footwork comes back to him in that instant, and he’s able to corner Merlin against a wall in just a few steps. Some other memories come back, too, so he says as he approaches, “She says you’re meant to be fulfilling some great destiny, being the greatest sorcerer in all of Albion or something, and instead you’re an absolute mess. Seems I’m here to fix it.”

Merlin just looks at him with a remarkably level expression, clearly fighting the urge to believe him. “You’re saying my spells aren’t working. You’re a wraith. I can’t see it because my spells aren’t working.” The words sound too numb to be questions.

“No, you brave, beautiful idiot,” Arthur says, memories coming like a flood of warmth inside him. He puts his hands on Merlin’s arms, which feel as bony as they did ages ago, back when they were the only part of him it was safe to touch. He slides his hands up Merlin’s shivering shoulders, tries to steady them, but they only tremble more, as they always did the first few times they stood like this and kissed. He cradles Merlin’s neck, brushes his thumbs against his pulse, then against the soft hairs that must have taken weeks to grow. “I’m saying you’re making a mess of things, _as usual_ , Merlin, and now I have to clean them up for you.”

Merlin pulls him in by the wet front of his shirt and kisses him until he can’t breathe, feels like he’s drowning, feels like he’s taking his first gasping breaths of new life, feels like he’s come home.

They don’t even make it indoors before Merlin’s testing out exactly how alive he is. Flat on his back and surging under Merlin’s everywhere-touch, Arthur feels pinned to the earth by Merlin’s want, or perhaps it’s his magic, or perhaps there never was a difference and never needs to be. Merlin won’t let him take more than two breaths at a time before his kiss returns from Arthur’s neck or stomach or underarm to his mouth again, while his hands roam over every part of him within reach, as though checking for blood, under his skin or spilling from it.

Arthur doesn’t even try to categorize the sensations of Merlin’s presence or of his own body coming back to life. It’s just _right_. It’s perfect, overwhelming, _Merlin_ , and he gives himself over to it, surprised when he comes right against Merlin’s hip, but Merlin’s intent gaze doesn’t look surprised at all, and that feels right, too: Merlin knows his body better than he does himself, just as he always has.

Merlin seems capable of very little after that besides sitting at his small kitchen table and staring at Arthur with wet eyes. Under his gaze, Arthur helps himself to one of the too-small coarse linen robes he finds on the floor and sets his own clothes to dry. The robe smells like Merlin, now that his mind has cleared enough to differentiate between senses. He assumes that the robes take little effort to put on, which must be why the garments seem to have taken over Merlin’s entire wardrobe. Nothing in Merlin’s house indicates effort being put into anything. There’s a pile of rotting, filthy dishes in the corner, and since Merlin seems to need a few minutes of silent contemplation, Arthur starts to wash the cups and pots in the basin of water that has clearly gone unused for days.

He eyes the jutting bones in Merlin’s wrists while he works, and once he’s cleaned enough to cook with, he goes outside to start a fire and set some water from the stream to boil. He comes back inside to see whether there is anything to boil but gets lost in the mess of jars and pots strewn about the place.

“Now I _know_ you’re not the real Arthur,” Merlin says after an age, having apparently accepted his new reality enough to try to joke about it.

Arthur finds that comforting and turns around to smile, the open sides of the robe swinging loosely around him. There’s a mixture of amusement and something fiercer in Merlin’s eyes as he looks between Arthur’s legs, but Arthur can’t unsee the tinge of gold anymore. “What gave me away?” Arthur asks, desperate to draw out Merlin’s smile.

“Washing pots and pans is far too complicated and challenging a task for the real Arthur.”

The corner of Merlin’s mouth tucks into a smile, and Arthur can’t stop himself from walking over to kiss it. Merlin doesn’t stop him, either.

There are probably other things in the world that Arthur should be worrying about, but kissing Merlin is the only thing that feels right, making Merlin smile makes him feel the way completing a noble quest used to make him feel, watching Merlin eat the horrible vegetable stew he’d just cooked feels like the crawling itch of a rapidly healing wound.

It’s dark when it all sinks in, then Arthur’s the one desperate to make sure it’s all real, that Merlin really does fold up under him and arch into him and that his ribs still feel the same under Arthur’s searching palms. Days or maybe weeks of unwashed sweat fill the small room as thick as the scent of their arousal, and Arthur could choke on it for how much he wants Merlin close, wants him better, wants him exactly like this. Merlin’s moans burn brighter, his hands grip tighter. For a blissful, suspended minute, Arthur can’t remember a single thing besides this.

His heart falters slightly in the morning, when Merlin seems sullen and unwilling to leave the bed, and not in the fun, playful way of their youth. Perhaps the Triple Goddess had chosen the wrong person to revive Merlin. It didn’t matter, since all Arthur wanted was to be here, and to kiss Merlin’s smile again.

Merlin stirs at the first dab of wet shaving soap to his jaw. “Oh, I wasn’t sure you’d feel that under all this scraggly beard,” Arthur says, though Merlin does not appear alert enough for teasing. Listlessly, Merlin lets him start shaving his face, blinking slowly up at him every once in a while. Arthur bites his lip in concentration, a calm, familiar pleasure slipping through his veins as he maps out the well-known contours of Merlin’s hollow cheeks with his fingers, with his blade.

Once Merlin’s jaw and cheek are smooth again, Arthur lowers his mouth to feel their softness against his lips. Reluctantly, he pulls away again to finish the job, carefully scraping clean Merlin’s upper lip, then the rest of his jaw. All the while, Merlin watches him, eventually, setting his hand high on Arthur’s curled leg, over his pulse.

He starts in on Merlin’s neck, marveling at how thick the hair is there. It’s a side of Merlin he’d never seen before, or even imagined. He watches each shaft of hair crash against the course of the blade and wonders if Merlin could do all this with magic, if he wished. “I used to love it when you’d do my shaving,” Arthur whispers into the quiet between them. He remembers being young, oh so young, and mindlessly craving the hot, boyish taste of Merlin’s breaths falling onto his hungry face as he exhaled in concentration. He remembers being a bit older, and the blissful, secret relief in his sore neck when Merlin removed his crown at the end of a long day, held his head between his narrow palms, and pressed a blade to his throat.

Merlin doesn’t say anything until the task is nearly done. “I could have done it a lot faster using magic.”

Arthur lets his expression remain sincere. “I would love that, sometime.” He wipes Merlin’s face with his sleeve, checking for missed spots, checking for nicks. All he finds are the tears welling in Merlin’s eyes. “There’s my boy,” Arthur whispers, awe striking the center of his chest as he sets his bowl and blade down and lowers his head to kiss all over Merlin’s smooth cheeks. He sighs happily, needily against the sharp ridges of his throat. “My sorcerer.”

Merlin’s reaction is harsher than he expected, but perhaps Arthur should know him better. “You’re just trying to get rid of me.”

“What?” Arthur asks, something close to laughter catching in the bridge of his nose where it’s pressed against Merlin’s jaw. It has to be fairly obvious that he is trying very hard to keep Merlin, not get rid of him.

Merlin’s arms come around Arthur’s shoulders, pulling him close and tight, even as his voice drifts sadly and aimlessly. “If you’re here just to get me to practice magic again, then the sooner you get me back on my feet and presentable again, the sooner you’re going to leave me again.”

Arthur breaks away from his hold just enough to catch him by the jaw and seal his mouth with a kiss so no more words can escape. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says with Merlin’s lip between his teeth, desperately grateful at least that Merlin is kissing him back, like he needs to kiss Arthur so badly that he’ll do it even if it means losing him more quickly. But no one is losing anyone else.

“How can you promise that?” Merlin gasps wetly, tightening his arms around the back of Arthur’s neck.

Arthur tries to identify a feeling high in his gut and realizes that it’s attached to a memory. He remembers pulling Excalibur from stone, choosing to believe the impossible is possible, deciding to make it happen because it must happen. With a flutter of emotion in his throat, he realizes that the whole event had to have been a part of Merlin’s magic, that it was Merlin himself who had given Arthur the strength to do what must be done.

He licks sweet and thick into Merlin’s wet mouth, diving for all his beautiful, warm secrets. “Because you can’t fight destiny, Merlin,” he says, pushing the words deep past the swell of Merlin’s lips, knowing they will stick because they must, “And I’m yours.”


End file.
